


My Soul More Bent

by unintentionallyangsty (orphan_account)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blind!Merlin, Dark!Arthur, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unintentionallyangsty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I know that my need, my desire, will always be stronger than my pride. Stronger than the dignity that whispers at the back of my neck, gently shoving unwanted reminders into my consciousness, causing my flesh to prickle involuntarily.  Whether I return or not..."</em>
  <br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	My Soul More Bent

_You have played,_

_(I think)_

_And broke the toys you were fondest of,_

_And are a little tired now;_

_Tired of things that break, and—_

_Just tired. So am I._

- _Tired_ by E.E Cummings

I can feel it as soon as he spots me. His small intake of breath. His slight shuffle of feet. Like he can’t make up his mind. But I know that it was made up as soon as he saw me shove my way through the door, tripping over my own feet, and letting the lull of voices drown out the bristle of anticipation I felt at the back of my neck. Before that even, since Gwen called on me earlier today, letting me know that Arthur had just been through another break up. Sofia this time, his longest yet. I’d been informed early on of the way she couldn’t keep her paws off of him, as if something supernatural drew her to his side. In my opinion, it was purely something physical. Trust me, I know.

I was also duly informed of Arthur’s less than enthusiastic response.

“Just… be careful, Merlin.” Gwen had warned, and I could hear the moisture behind her words as she placed one of her warm and comforting hands on my already trembling forearm.

Now he pretends to make his decision, after the initial moment of hesitation. As if it were a hard won choice. But that’s just part of the entire thing. Waiting is nothing new. Nothing I’m not entirely used to.

I can feel him approaching me now, and I feel my toes curl in the eagerness I no longer have the power to stem, in want, in _need_. I think I’ve actually known, maybe subconsciously at times, for a long while now that I’m in this thing too deep. Too long to be entirely comfortable with thinking on it in all honesty. So it’s only times like these, the brief opportunity I have to walk away, that I do.

“Let’s play a game,” He says, drawing me roughly from my thoughts. He knows I never expect him by my side as fast as he is, and he takes advantage of it almost whenever he can. 

And I can feel it. Feel the heat pool just where it always does. Feel my breath hitch, and then quicken a pace. Feel Arthur’s knowing smirk. He can read me like a fucking book, now. The only notable change in our relationship.

“Let’s pretend,” He continues, and his hot fingertips brush the back of my hand. As if my reaction went completely unnoticed. He’s noticed my barely contained eagerness for far too long now. “Let’s pretend that you’re my boyfriend.”

It always starts this way. Sometimes it’s a bad break-up, sometimes simply a disappointment to his father, and he’s at my side in an instant. “Let’s pretend…”

I can easily walk away. I know for a fact that he would not try and stop me. It's not a guess. I know because I’ve tried it. Just a couple of times. When it’s been one too many times he seeks my attention. When I can feel the anger win out over the other, almost always overpowering, factors. And so I’ve walked away. Each and every time hearing his soft sigh behind me. As if it was a terrible inconvenience. As if I wouldn’t crawl back into those strong and lovely arms. But he knew even the first time I tried. Even then, knew that I could hardly keep _that_ up. He’s addicting, you have to understand. Almost charged with a strange and foreign energy. And you can’t help but return to him. Kind of like that continuous temptation to shock your finger on an electric fence, after it’s already sent its first jolt through you.

Like a dog back to its vomit.

In the same way, I know that my need, my desire, will always be stronger than my pride. Stronger than the dignity that whispers at the back of my neck, gently shoving unwanted reminders into my consciousness, causing my flesh to prickle involuntarily. Whether I return or not.

“You’re back.” Arthur says simply when I do, like it’s a surprise. And I can imagine his mocking eyebrows raising a fraction. I don’t actually have to see it to know.

I don’t know what it is. I’ve been told it’s abuse. But I know it’s not. That it can’t actually be. Because we’re not actually together, though I let him do things to me that I would a real lover. Let him caress me how he wants to, soft and simply sweet with that electric, intoxicating edge that leaves me breathless and gasping for more when it’s gone. I let his hand grasp mine, possessively, in public, and his lips brush my cheekbone tenderly, smirking at the heat he can feel flooding there at the contact. It’s all just a part of his perfect act. Elaborate. It has to be perfect like that. He could be an actor, after all. And I’m his prop.

It’s a type of game we play off and on -if anything- I guess. There are pawns and cards. We roll dice, and the outcome takes its toll on us.

There are no winners.

I did try asking once, what it was. What someone else, a bystander, thought of it. It was only Gwen. I’ve known her since we were kids in primary school; she gives sound advice, and keeps secrets well. She told me that it was most certainly abuse. That I have to, must, “Get out. Get out right now.” But I don’t think that she really understands. I can get out anytime I want, and I told her as much. That’s not the problem. I just don’t really… have a desire to. And I don’t _need_ to. Because whatever it is, it’s not healthy, I’m aware of that. But it’s not mistreatment. Because he treats me well when we’re playing.

The time I told about our game was exempt. It was the only time he’d ever touched me in that way. Rough. Like it was something wrong to tell. So I don’t anymore.

“It’s _our_ game.” He hummed afterward, kissing it better.

He thinks I’m beautiful, despite what I know. I haven’t forgotten what I look like. Not since I last saw myself. All pasty and toothpick limbs, hair overly thick and never submissive. Ears a disaster.

But he’s told me so himself. The times I stand in front of the mirror, picturing what I cannot see, what I must look like, covered in a new sheen of perspiration, eyes vacant and cloudy like they’ve been for nearly ten years now, unable to see the state we’re both in. He’ll approach from behind, intentionally, considerately loud so I don’t start, and wrap those wonderful arms around my (‘alarming’, I’ve been told) ribcage.

”Beautiful.” He says, voice low and what sounds like awe-struck as he places another one of those perfect, tender kisses to my shoulder. “So beautiful.”

He’s the only one who has never spoken about my ‘condition’. He’s never once mentioned my now milky irises, even in passing. It’s the one unspoken rule between us. And it’s always held, easing the sting of the rest.

He pretends that this game that we continue to play isn’t painful, you see. That he can walk away just as easily as I can.

But that’s another thing that’s changed. I know he can’t.

He knows it’s painful for me. Knows that the dampness on my pleasure flushed face isn’t always entirely made up of sweat. That my cries are often of pain and not pleasure. He knows that wince I feel on my features each time he finds a new toy. Knows it like an old friend.

He knows my flush when he reappears at my side like he can’t stop himself, when the toy ends up broken. 

But he thinks that because I can’t actually see it, I can’t feel the pain on his end. Can’t feel the way his arm, strong and golden, twitches after love, longing to stroke my still trembling spine, like he has sparingly before. Can’t feel his grimace when I’m the one to walk away first.

He’s in control, he thinks. Like a Pendragon always should be. Always is. But really, I don’t think either of us is anymore. That’s the line that’s been blurred. When the game began, there was a master, and a slave. The dominant and the submissive. The way he liked it. The way it was supposed to be. Now, neither of us is left on top. Neither of us is the winner.

So I let him take my hand quietly, let his lips brush one of my stupid ears softly, almost reverently, causing my trembling to increase a fraction.

I let him lead me home.

“Let’s play a game,” he says. But we both know it’s not a game now. Not anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> My title was borrowed from the John Milton poem "On His Blindness". I have a hard time coming up with my own titles. :/  
> All the same! I do hope you enjoyed, and any criticism or critique is always appreciated. :)


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